Trauma
The day before he left for Amsterdam Schiphol Airport.
The Dutch sky was unusually clear and high.
Yet as Ma Gang-cheol stepped onto Ajax’s training ground, De Toekomst, his heart was strangely buoyant and, at the same time, heavy.
From morning onward, Jang Ho-seok had tried to stop him. “Just pack your bags and roll around in bed, please.” One injury and everything would be ruined. Gang-cheol shook his head.
My body itches too much. I can’t sit still.
The system’s rewards had pushed his physical abilities to the peak. But “feel” was another matter entirely. A few days without a ball and the sensitivity in his toes dulled. Before marching onto the battlefield of the World Cup, he wanted to sharpen his blade one last time.
On the pitch, the U-19 squad was deep into tactical drills. With special approval from Director Overmars, Gang-cheol slipped naturally among the older players and began stretching.
“Hey, look who it is—the grade-skipping genius.”
“You’re off to the national team, right? Don’t go embarrassing the Netherlands. Do us proud.”
The seniors teased him, ruffling his hair. Even van den Berg, the starting defender who had been thoroughly dismantled by Gang-cheol a few days earlier, snorted and gave him a light slap on the backside. The atmosphere was warm and easy.
Until that moment, Gang-cheol had no idea that this peaceful afternoon would awaken the demon sleeping in the deepest part of him.
Tweet!
The coach’s whistle blew and the mini-game began. Gang-cheol moved lightly, as always. The feel of the grass underfoot, the way the ball wrapped around his instep—everything was perfect.
Then, in midfield, he received the ball and tried to turn.
A massive defender charged from the opposite side. Van den Berg. He held no grudge, but with the national-team call-up looming he wanted to remind the junior of “Europe’s spice.” The tackle came a little deeper, a little rougher than usual.
“Uracha!”
It was a fair shoulder challenge, pure physical contact. Bad luck, though. The left foot Gang-cheol planted to hold his balance caught a slight divot in the turf.
Crunch.
A tiny sound. His ankle twisted at a sickening angle.
“……!”
His body lost its center and he went down. Thanks to the trait Diamond Body, the ligaments were fine. The bones were fine. Even the pain was bearable.
The problem was the sound.
That eerie, dull scrape of bone against bone struck the detonator in Gang-cheol’s brain.
Screech—crash!
In an instant a horrific tearing noise exploded in his ears like a hallucination. The green grass before his eyes vanished. In its place: asphalt soaked in bright red blood, and the crumpled bumper of a truck.
“Get out of the way! It’s dangerous!”
Eleven-year-old Ma Gang-cheol. The day he spotted a small child who had dashed into the road to save a puppy. Instinct took over; he threw himself forward. He managed to shove the child clear. The massive truck could not stop.
Crrrunch.
The agony of a leg being crushed. The world flipped. Through a blurred field of vision came the wail of an ambulance siren.
“Kid! Stay with me! Don’t move that leg!”
After the accident, Gang-cheol’s football life turned into hell. The boy once called a genius became “glass-bodied.” When others put in 100, he had to put in 200, 300 with a ruined leg just to keep up. Rain made his knees throb so badly he could not sleep. The slightest overexertion and his ankle swelled like a balloon.
He never quit. Third-division K3, fourth division, amateur weekend leagues… He chewed painkillers like candy, wrapped his legs in endless tape, and clung on with sheer stubbornness.
Then, one day at thirty-five, on a shabby K3 pitch. The final re-contract trial. Fail it and he would starve.
“That old man—his legs are shot! Shove him that way!”
The opposing defender’s shout. Then a murderous tackle.
Thud!
The last ligament he had been barely holding onto finally snapped. It was not merely the sound of a leg breaking. It was the sound of a life that had endured twenty-five years of blood and tears snapping in half.
“I’m sorry, Ma Gang-cheol. You’re not young anymore… and given the club’s situation, we can’t continue.”
“This is your release notice. Pack your things.”
That was how it ended. The price of the heroism that saved a child: release at thirty-five and a miserable lonely death—before the regression.
I should have just died then. Why did I live through all that suffering?
Every night he cracked open soju bottles and howled into that hellish memory.
“Ugh… uwaaaaah!!”
Gang-cheol screamed and rolled on the pitch, clutching his ankle, trembling like an aspen leaf. His vision flashed white. Truck headlights, the cold glare of an operating room, and the release notice all overlapped.
“Gang-cheol! Hey! Ma Gang-cheol!”
“Medic! Get a doctor! Hurry!”
Players rushed over in panic. From the bench, Ho-seok’s face crumpled as he sprinted out.
“Gang-cheol! What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?!”
Ho-seok shook his shoulders, but nothing reached Gang-cheol’s ears. He could not breathe. His heart hammered wildly.
Terror.
The primal fear that he might lose everything again and return to that hell, to that moldy one-room flat, swallowed the fourteen-year-old body whole.
Mental strength is plummeting rapidly.
Heart rate has reached critical levels.
Passive skills are being deactivated.
The hospital’s detailed examination returned a simple diagnosis: mild sprain. The doctor tilted his head.
“X-rays and MRI are both clean. Bones and ligaments are as solid as steel. A few days of ice and rest and you’ll be fine. I honestly don’t understand why you screamed like that.”
Back at the dormitory, Gang-cheol could not leave the bed. Cold sweat would not stop. Even looking at the football in the corner of the room summoned the image of truck tires and made him nauseous.
The body the system had given him was the diamond-hard shell of a fourteen-year-old. The soul inside was a shard of glass stained by thirty-five years of wounds.
I’m scared…
He pulled the blanket over his head and curled into the dark. Even with the system, if his mind broke it was over. One accident could end this life too. If he had to endure that long agony again… death might be better.
Weak thoughts chased one another in endless circles.
Ding-dong—
The doorbell. Probably Ho-seok, come to nag him about eating and taking medicine. Gang-cheol did not answer.
Click.
The door lock opened. Footsteps approached—lighter, more careful than Ho-seok’s.
“Gang-cheol, it’s me.”
A clear, calm voice. He flinched and peeled the blanket back a fraction.
Standing in the doorway was not his manager. A girl with a violin case slung over her shoulder and slightly messy hair. Han Se-hui, who had gone to study in Germany.
“You… what are you doing here…”
“Ho-seok hyung called me. He said you got hurt.”
The moment she heard, she had dropped practice and everything else, boarded a train, and crossed the border. Her face was pale, but her eyes burned bright.
She strode over without even taking off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’m not hurt. Just a twist. The doctor said I’m fine.”
Gang-cheol forced a smile, but his voice trembled faintly. Se-hui said nothing and simply took his hand. His cold fingers met her warm ones.
“Liar.”
“……”
“You’re shaking right now.”
His pupils wavered. He felt as if the shame he had tried to hide had been exposed. Se-hui locked eyes with him.
“Gang-cheol. Look at me.”
Her gaze was firm.
“Why do you have those eyes? Like some old man who’s already lived his whole life.”
He flinched. She knew nothing of the regression. Yet her intuition was terrifyingly accurate. She sensed, instinctively, that the deep despair in his eyes was not something a fourteen-year-old boy should carry.
“This isn’t like you. Over one twisted ankle?”
She squeezed his hand harder—hard enough to hurt.
“You’re Ma Gang-cheol. The kid I know doesn’t hide under a blanket and cry just because he scraped his leg playing football.”
“……”
“When you left you said you’d chew up all of Europe and prove yourself. You told me to watch carefully. And now you’re going to stay like this?”
His fogged mind began to clear. Yes. He had promised. He had let the miserable memories of his past life devour him and forgotten the ambition of this one. He was not the thirty-five-year-old loser. He was a fourteen-year-old genius who held the power to rewrite the future.
“Se-hui…”
“Snap out of it. You haven’t lost anything. Your legs are fine. Your skill is still there.”
She laid a hand on his forehead. Warmth seeped into the cold skin.
“Get up. Go show them who you are.”
A warm wave began to push the gray terror from his mind. The ringing in his ears faded. The truck’s horn, the thirty-five-year-old’s scream—both vanished. What remained before him was not the despair of the past, but the person who believed in him now: Han Se-hui.
Hidden Quest Complete: “Healing the Wound of the Heart”
— You have overcome your trauma.
— Mental Strength stat has risen dramatically. (C → A)
— New Trait Acquired: [Steel Mentality (S)]
(Maintains composure in any crisis and grants complete immunity to injury-related fear.)
“……Huuu.”
Gang-cheol exhaled a long breath. It felt as if the sludge that had settled deep in his lungs was finally leaving. His head cleared as if by magic. In the place where fear had been, hot passion rose once more.
Yes. He was no longer that weak thirty-five-year-old has-been. He was the master of the system.
“Thanks, Se-hui.”
He smirked—the same confident, slightly arrogant smile as always.
“You snapped me out of it. Guess I have to earn my keep.”
“Tch. Now you look human again.”
Only then did Se-hui smile in relief and release his hand. Yet the tips of her fingers were trembling too. For all her tough words, she had been terrified he might truly break.
“Do well at the World Cup. If you win, I’ll grant you one wish.”
“Really? No take-backs?”
“Fine, just pack already. You’ll miss the flight.”
The next day.
Incheon International Airport arrivals hall.
The automatic doors opened and hundreds of camera flashes exploded at once. The flood of light was like a blast site.
“Ma Gang-cheol! Welcome home!”
“Look this way, please! Ma Gang-cheol!”
“Waaaaaah!! Gang-cheol!!”
Girls’ screams and reporters’ questions shook the terminal. The fourteen-year-old genius who had conquered the Dutch league and returned in glory. The crowd that had gathered to see him rivaled an idol group’s homecoming.
Gang-cheol removed his sunglasses and waved. The terror of the day before was nowhere to be found. His steps were lighter and more assured than ever. Signing for fans, smiling easily at the press—he already looked like a finished superstar.
But after the glittering welcome, the place he arrived at was the K-NFC—the national team training center. Waiting for him there was another unexpected wall.
“Hey. Europe boy.”
At the entrance to the training ground stood a middle-aged man with arms crossed, looking down at him with a crooked gaze. Fluorescent training suit, whistle around his neck: Kim Tae-hoon, head coach of the U-17 national team. In football circles he was known as “the Viper,” a classic old-school drill sergeant from the eighties.
Coach Kim looked Gang-cheol up and down, then spat on the ground.
“So you drank a little Dutch water and now you’re full of yourself? Look at that hair color… This is the national team. Not your personal playground.”
He clearly disliked the brown-dyed hair and flashy boots. Nearby domestic players held their breath and watched carefully.
Hierarchy. Territorial hazing. The most Korean—and most inefficient—bad habit was welcoming him.
One mountain after another.
Gang-cheol clicked his tongue inwardly. In Europe, ability proved everything. Here, age and seniority still ranked above skill. Fresh from overcoming trauma, another trial had arrived.
Yet he did not flinch. His mentality was already S-rank. A mind that had endured twenty-five years of pain was not going to fear some old-fashioned coach. Instead, a smile of genuine interest spread across his lips.
He placed a hand on his stomach and bowed with perfect politeness, eyes blazing.
“Hello, Coach. Ma Gang-cheol.”
“Too quiet. Again.”
“Please take good care of me!! I will prove myself with my ability!!”
The booming voice rolled across the training ground. Coach Kim’s face flushed red. He had meant to crush the boy’s spirit; instead he felt his own momentum checked.
“……What? Prove?”
“Yes. Footballers speak with their feet.”
At the provocative answer a collective gasp rose among the players. The coach’s eyebrows twitched.
“Ha. Look at this bold little bastard… Fine. Let’s see just how good you are.”
The curtain of war had risen.
Gang-cheol set down his suitcase and tightened the laces of his boots.
It was time to show them.
What real class looked like.